Creeping Dawn: The First Hunger Games (SYOT OPEN)
by etherealepiphany
Summary: A new era is dawning. An era of pain and suffering with tendrils that touch every citizen of the Districts. Welcome to the Hunger Games. SYOT OPEN!
1. Prolouge I

My mother told me that we came from dust, and to dust we shall return. And right now, I am nothing but dust and ashes and misery, floating away on the flippant breeze. I've been clutching my knees for so long that I'm sure they've frozen to my hunched body, that they've disappeared. I don't dare move, and I keep my eyes closed. Those were the last words I heard my mother say, and I've been in this position for what feels like a year, the shift of day and night blurring into a milky gray and flattening until time becomes meaningless.

Somewhere in the distance, a child screams.

The air is biting against my filthy skin, which feels gritty and greasy, the result of months of rebellion and chaos, anarchy in the streets, standoffs on the sidewalks. The wood and rubble that used to be our house is rough against my hollow cheek. My muscles cramp, my face burns.

And my eyes stay closed.

The drone of planes prompts a fresh bout of screams and yells from those who cannot see me, the stragglers, the last remaining fighters. The families. The children. Bombs drop, and I can feel the blunt sting of bits of stone as they fling themselves to my face, clawing with vicious fingers. A tear slides from my closed eye, pulling stone and ashes with it.

My father was a rebel, a train conductor who couldn't stand the starvation of his wife and child. My mother whispered to me at night, while men spoke with urgency in low voices in the parlor of our shack. _You must keep your eyes closed, you must keep your ears closed. You don't know anything, you love our president. _

It became my lullaby. I would fall asleep with her words in my ears; her sentences would be on my lips the moment I awoke. But as dreams turned to riots and riots turned to war, my lullaby changed.

_You are a child, you are loyal. You don't know anything. But Mrs. Saville on Block 21 is a known rebel. Then run._

My mother left me alone with my eyes closed to try to find us food, her body hidden beneath layers of shapeless fabric, her face smeared with dirt. She couldn't trust the soldiers, the rebels, the children, me. She couldn't trust anyone after my father left one morning for a scheduled riot and never came back. She is gone, I can feel it, sure as I can feel the ground vibrating beneath me.

Blood drips from the new cut beneath my eye, the result of a flying piece of debris. Clothes rip, women scream. Bombs fall, the earth shakes. Children cry, mothers die.

I am a child of war.

* * *

**Eyyyyyyy**

**Welcome my lovely bitches to the FIRST hunger games how ORIGINAL am I? I know i know you're too kind**

**But anyways, welcome to the SYOT!**

**Here are my main rules:**

**SUBMIT DETAILED TRIBUTES**

**When you submit, do so as- Katniss Everdeen, D12F in the subject box. It makes things hella easier**

**You may submit AT MOST two tributes**

**Pls review because i am needy and ily and your reviews!**

**Lit! There is NO sponsoring system for these games, as it is the first. HOWEVER, if you are active, you review and follow the story, you WILL be able to talk to me behind the scenes, and your tribute can "find" water, food, etc.**

**Enjoy this super original syot y'all are the best**

**Thank you for your time folks!**

**ethereal :))**


	2. Prologue II

The gloves slide onto my fingers with practiced precision. They hide the veins in my frail hands, and they cover the sores from constant scratching. A flock of stylists flitter around me, respect in their manner, fear in their eyes. One places a purple flower upon the lapel of my suit; another brushes a translucent powder over my wrinkled skin.

"Ten seconds!" a voice calls from the broadcasting room, their high tones muffled through the door.

I push the brush from my face and walk slowly, in a dignified manner to the door, opening it slowly. I step in front of the cameras, lower myself into the golden chair, its embellishment giving me the aura of a king.

"Three… Two…" a bony finger points at me. The red beam flashes.

"Panem." My voice takes a while to lose the rust that has gathered in my throat. "Panem. It is with relief, joy, and pain, that I declare the end of this brutal war."

My first day as president, fifty years prior, I wore this same purple flower. I wonder vaguely if the one on my lapel came from the same plant.

"Thirteen districts, twelve remaining. You rose up against your creator, your protector, who only sought to love and care for you. You are my Adam, but I am afraid you have fallen from my grace."

Despite my greatest precautions, the lengths I took to achieve peace, war was inevitable. The black mark of death and rebellion burns me wherever I go, a hot iron permanently attached to my skin. Fury courses through my veins with poison. I watched myself give the orders to kill children, to rape women, to burn and pillage and murder, all in the name of power, in the name of utmost control.

I feel it was worth it, but the collateral damage hangs heavy on my failing heart.

"A reminder shall be henceforth instated, to remind the districts of who we have lost, and that the Capitol will never be defeated. Panem shall remain strong and together, for the rest of our history."

The film crew stands around me, staring, eyes like greedy animals, ready to pounce. That same feeling of filthy anticipation fills me, as I lick my lips, imagining the Districts, corralled in their town squares, smoke still rising from rubble, ashes still coating every being.

"A annual pageant of victory, triumph, and loss will serve as a reminder of the cost of war, and the loss of innocence it can inflict on lives, both young and old."

Breath in. Breath out.

"Each year, the districts shall each offer up one male and one female, to be enclosed in an arena of varying landscape. These tributes will fight to the death, until one lone victor remains. Remember the mercy of the Capitol. Remember the sacrifice of war. Remember the cost of rebellion. This shall be henceforth known as the Hunger Games."

The camera clicks, the red light dies. I remain rooted to the spot, that filthy, filthy power corrupting my near blind eyes. Children will be crying, parents shouting and fainting. I can only imagine the chaos that must be erupting. I smile.

I stumble across the floor, wheezing as I nearly fall to the ground. My nephew runs to help me, his youthful arms helping me into a chair. Power courses through me like a drug, making my body weak.

I am old. But this power is young.

I closed my eyes. "May it flourish." I murmur, and breathe my last.

* * *

**Hey bbs!**

**So here's a quick fun filler chapter while I wait for more tributes. The president of Panem has just passed on, leaving his nephew as his successor, to run the first ever Hunger Games.**

**Please review! Tell me what you liked and didn't like, and feel free to give suggestions and critiques.**

**See you sooon!**

**xo ethereal**


	3. District One: Jacinth Lazurite

**District One Male: Jacinth Lazurite (15)**

The world around others has crumbled. The streets of District One are littered with rubbish of all kinds: dead animals, rubble, bits of plastic and rotting food, all twining together to create a sort of putrid smog and stench. On the poorer side of the district, you oftentimes see the streets littered with more than just trash, but with families too. Old men with bloody gashes on their bodies, hunched and starved children, young women who sell more than the pieces of old clothing in their hands. Even the richest among us struggle, their loyalist instincts during the war a target for the rebels. Mansions have been reduced to rubble, neighbors have turned against one another. Families have been broken apart. It's not hard to consider myself lucky.

The small squat tailor shop that resides in one of the modest shopping regions of the district is a safe haven from the destruction outside. In here, it smells faintly of dust and a rainbow of colors. As I listen to Edgar talk, my fingers dance across the bolts of fabric, the rich hues still slightly blurry, despite the glasses I wear.

"This is an embroidery stitch, Jacinth," Edgar's sharp eyes meet mine. "Not very practical, but beautiful. People paid a lot of money for hand embroidered clothes, back in the day."

"Think anyone could afford something like that now?" I ask, genuinely curious. Besides knowing almost all there is to know about tailoring and sewing, Edgar knows a lot about the District, the Capitol, and life before the war. Today, however, he simply looks at me sadly, and I'm well aware as to why.

"Doesn't matter," he shrugs, turning back to his work. "We have to pass down these skills. Now watch this one, Jacinth. This is called bullion stitch. Another impractical but beautiful thing."

I watch as the needle flawlessly twists and turns in his aged hands, lined with stories and skills. We work in slow silence, my eyes squinting to catch the details and perfections of his work. It's hard to replicate, and I take off my glasses to rub my eyes. The world around me twists into a blur of color, and my head quickly begins to ache ever so slightly. I put them back on, setting down the cloth.

"Edgar," I say quietly. "I'm scared." The works jerk their way out of my mouth. I don't particularly like to admit it, but it's hard to hide my emotions.

"Anyone would be," he says gruffly, continuing to stitch his own piece of fabric. "But I wouldn't be too worried."

"Why not?"

"Kid, both your parents were loyalists. You have less of a target on your back."

"They drawing is random. Right?"

He chuckles. "That's what they tell us."

I think about that for a moment. Dad and Mom were both loyalists. My father worked in a factory during the war, never sent into combat. He repaired advanced machinery, his quick hands useful to the Capitol. My mother and sister worked in the infirmary, helping wounded soldiers. Obedient in every way, I suppose. It still doesn't assuage my fears much.

"Thanks, Edgar," I mumble, turning back to my cloth.

"Anytime, kid. Anytime."

-:-

"Jacinth!" The voice is loud and bright, like sun cutting through storm clouds. I know before turning that Constance is behind me. I watch her bound towards me, all blonde hair and spunkiness. She lost her father to the war, but swallows the sadness. If it had happened to me, I likely would be in shambles, but Constance seems to be okay. It barely makes sense to me.

"Hey," I grin, though it wavers slightly. I give her a side hug and mess up her hair.

"Hey," she pants, tired from the short sprint. She quickly fixes her hair, poking her tongue out at me. I watch her for a moment as she fans her face.

Constance and I don't outwardly appear to have much in common, despite our blonde hair and light eyes. She is pretty where I am average, outgoing where I am shy, rude where I am polite, and tough where I am sensitive. She leads; I follow. Sometimes it hardly makes sense to me. She's lost so much, whereas I am grateful. Somehow though, our friendship clicks, and it has nearly all our lives.

"I saw Malachi down by the town square," she tosses her hair over her shoulder. "He wanted to talk to you."

"Why didn't he just stop by Edgar's?" I ask. "He's always does that."

"Said something about 'getting ready to die'," she gives me a little grin, like it's a joke. I shake my head but can't help the small smile creeping onto my face. My boyfriend's dark humor is oftentimes contagious.

"He's stopping by my house later," I say nervously. "For the second time since we started dating."

"Well," Constance huffs as we walk up a slight incline. "You picked a good day."

"Don't remind me." I mutter. We near our neighborhood. Small wooden houses line the cobbled streets. Here, smoke is often still thick in the air. The rubble that lines the streets still downtown is not as present here, but what takes up a lot of space is the beggars, the starving children, the prostitutes. The people struggling for survival.

"This is me." Constance stops at her house, a yellow home with peeling paint and a small porch. "I'll see you in the square at twelve, ok?" She reaches out, squeezing my arm.

"Okay," I nod, giving her a small smile and squeezing back. "We'll be okay."

"That's the spirit." She laughs as she heads inside, and I am left grinning half-heartedly at a closed door and smoggy air.

-:-

My room is small, but it is the one space I can truly call my own, and I love it for that. On sunny days, light will stream through the window, illuminating the wooden bed with its thin mattress, the desk my father built for me, the mirror next to my closet. Today, however, the weather outside reflects the events of the next few hours. Gray skies, dim light.

"Hey, Jacinth!" Veronica's voice sounds from outside my door. "Your little boyfriend's here! Hurry your ass up!"

"Tell him I'm coming," I respond mildly, small smile on my face. Veronica likes to pretend she doesn't care, but I know she's scared for me. I can read her more easily than most, even what she doesn't voice aloud.

I glance in the mirror before I leave the room, straightening the blue bowtie and pulling at the navy suit Edgar let me borrow for the occasion. I adjust my glasses, hoping that I look handsome, and that my boyfriend will find me so.

"There he is!" My mother stands with Malachi in the small living room. She looks flustered, and her face is blotchy, like she's been crying. She pulls me into a tight hug, something she doesn't do often. She's usually too busy to be physically affectionate, settling with a quick 'I love you!' before she rushes out the door with my father in the mornings, heading to the jewel mines.

"Hi Mom," I hug her back before turning to Malachi, shooting him a light grin. "Where's Dad?"

"He had to work today," She says, straightening her shirt. "I took the day off, but you know how things are. He'll be at the reaping though."

I feel a shudder of dread shoot through my body at the word. I wish I could ignore this like I ignore most other difficult conflicts. But this is more than a simple fight between friends or family. It's deadly.

"I think we'd better go now, Mom," I lean in for another hug. "Love you."

"I'll see you after," she responds, voice strangely high.

"Okay," I don't bother to tell her not to worry.

Malachi and I shut the door behind us. For a moment, we walk in silence, joining the crowd of people making their way towards the town square. Most are dressed up. I see a few girls in evening gowns, a couple of boys in suits like mine. Most, however, are just in clean clothes, which is nicer than some can even afford. It's me who finally breaks the silence.

"Heard you were looking for me," I tease, poking him in the ribs. "Wanted to see me before I get sent to my death?"

"Oh, shut up," he says, but his grinning despite the circumstances as well. "It won't be you."

"If you say so," I relent mildly, not wanting to shove my fear and paranoia down his throat. We pass a gaggle of kids walking together. From their hunched shoulders and starved bodies, they are easily marked as war orphans, the kids who were sent to the community homes after the war. Hopelessness lines their faces like premature wrinkles. I give an involuntary shudder.

"There was a reason I wanted to find you," Malachi's voice suddenly sounds nervous, and I look over at him. There's a strange expression on his face. Fear and tenderness and something fiery. The first time he flirted with me, I thought it was one big joke. It took me a while to realize his feelings were real, and it took me another few weeks to realize that even if it was a joke, I didn't mind it at all. But in the few months we've been a couple, I've never seen that kind of look on his face.

"What's that?"

"Just-" he pulls me to him and kisses me hard, quickly, tenderly. Once we break apart, I stare at him, then smile, touching my lips gently.

"There," he smirks. "Was that the best going away present or what?"

I can barely nod.

-:-

The crowd makes my palms sweat, and I try to ignore the intense feeling of danger that pulses in my gut. But, as always, I am unable to escape my emotions. I swallow hard, watching as a Capitol citizen, who they're calling an escort, teeters in five inch heels. Her hair hurts my eyes, and I try to focus on the pain building in my head as she reaches her hand into a large glass bowl to pick a name. The girl barely registers in my mind.

Malachi squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. At least it isn't Constance. I take a deep breath as she reaches to choose the male tribute. She teeters back to the microphone, smiling widely.

"Jacinth Lazurite!"

I feel a hundred thousand pairs of eyes on me. Pressure builds in my head and in my chest until I can barely breathe. I feel Malachi's hand go limp in mine, like a dead fish, eyes unseeing. Everyone is looking at me, and I hate when everyone looks at me. The fact that my fear of being the center of attention is the first thing on my mind at the moment causes laughter to bubble in my chest like champagne. Hysteria rises, and I suppress it. I cannot appear weak.

I somehow make my way to the stage with dry eyes. There is silence and there is weeping. The escort is practically shaking me in greeting.

My stomach turns. I'm going to an arena where I will have to kill children. Where children will try to kill me.

My gut twists, and I cannot stop the vomit that spews from my mouth onto the escort's neon purple dress. She screams.

I am going to the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Hello! Welcome to the first tribute of my SYOT! I hope his creator likes him. He was certainly hard to write. Some questions! **

**1) Favorite thing about this tribute?  
2) Least favorite thing about this tribute?**

**3) How can I improve my writing?**

**Thanks for reading. Please submit more tributes! This is currently the only one I have! **

**Y'all are some lit motherfuckas. Love ya!**

**xo ethereal**


	4. District Two: Leucas Olabode

**District Two Male: Leucas Olabode**

I clench my fists tighter until my umber skin begins to lighten, until I can see the cords holding my bones together. I imagine them splintering, breaking through my skin like the bones of other soldiers jutting through legs. I try to take deeper breaths, but each wheeze only reminds me of the choking sensation of poisonous gas and deadly chemicals, of the screams of dying kids, of the laughter of my sister when she was just getting over a cold.

"Goddamnit," I hiss to myself, my gruff voice attracting a couple of odd looks from those around me. I stop clenching one of my fists to turn the gold wire earring in my earlobe. I turn it slowly, trying to get the episode under control. A flash of my a bullet flying through my sister's head appears in bright, sick colors in my brain, and I resist the urge to scream.

The air in Two is cold yet humid, travelling to my skin via an open window, and the coins in my hands feel cautiously heavy and cool, their scent like salt and sea and metal. I count seven people with blonde hair in the near vicinity, and five things that are both round and blue. Focusing on the outside world helps to ground me, but I would never let anyone know the coping mechanisms I use to stabilize after a flashback or PTSD attack like this one.

"You wanted to buy something?" The store owner looks at me impatiently. "Or did you just wanna waste my time?"

I step forward. "Sorry," I mutter, voice low and gravelly. It sounds as though I've smoked five packs of cigarettes. In reality, the chemicals are still, on some level, there in my lungs. I try to forget the fact that I'll likely succumb to lung cancer at a younger age. That in itself would trigger an avalanche of memories. I hand the shopkeeper the coins. He waves the next customer forward.

I stumble outside into the clammy air, regaining my footing quickly. The attack has passed, and that's what's important. The streets of District Two are more put together than the rest of Panem, I imagine, but there are telltale signs of the horrific rebellion. The black skeleton of a burnt shop stands just a few stores down, no doubt set alight by violent anarchist rebels due to the owner's loyalist beliefs. A homeless mother nurses a baby on the corner, begging for spare change. Even District Two, the region that was supposed to support and keep peace in Panem, did not escape war.

I head to work, newly purchased stone hammer in my hands, watching the sun slowly rise as I make my way to the granite processing facility. Not many are here today, which is understandable. When I heard about the reaping and the games, I thought it was a just punishment for the rebels who made us all lose so much. My mother's arm and leg, my physical endurance, my level mind, my sister's life. Now, as the drawing grows closer and closer, I'm even more sure in my opinions. Whichever kid get chosen, I'm sure they'll deserve what they get. I'm clenching my fists again as I walk inside, the familiar din and drone of the machine's doing nothing to calm the fury building inside of me.

"Hey!"

A sudden shout jolts me from my angry daydream.

"Leucas! Over here!"

Cicero's lanky arms wildly wave from his position at the farthest contraption. I give him a slight nod before heading over, once again twisting the metal that lines my ears. I notice he's wearing the copper wire honeybee I crafted for him, and a sudden rush makes its way through my body. I smile.

I jog over to him, quickly beginning to run out of breath. I slow my pace. "Hey," I pant, finally reaching him. "Working today?"

"You know me," Cicero grins. "Always ready to work."

I shake my head at him, suppressing the grin. "Weren't so ready to work during the war," I tease.

"Hey, hey," he gestures at his lanky body. "Lupus is a bitch. Sometimes-" he sighs dramatically. "Sometimes your body rebels more than the outer districts."

I turn away from the talk about the rebellion, taking my place along the assembly line. Cicero takes the hint and does so as well, dropping the conversation quickly. Before long, I've lost myself in the methodical, rhythmic thwacks as our hammers meet stone. A long time ago, before the war, I used to lead work songs. Cicero worked with me even back then, and he used to tell me that my voice was the purest thing he'd ever heard, dropping the compliment easily and naturally. I don't sing anymore. It reminds me of Tamara, of her death, but more importantly, of her life, something I can't bear to think about anymore.

We work in silence now.

-:-

"So you really think this thing is justified?"

"I know it is," I respond, running a hand over my cropped hair. "They won't send anyone but the children of the worst of the worst to the Games. They can't."

"Yeah, but Jesus Leucas-" Scoria rolls her eyes. "Children."

"I was a child." I snap. "Tamara was a child."

Scoria pauses, pushing her short red hair from her sharp and clear eyes. "Still not over that, are you?"

"How could I be over that?" I pick a piece of peeling paint from the wooden slats of my home. "I watched her die. Or do you not remember? Were you too knocked up on morphine and feeling sorry for yourself?"

Scoria glances at me, raising her eyebrows. We're silent for a minute, but break into laughter at the same time. Our arguments are like that. We could never really be angry with one another, no matter how difficult and blunt she can be. Whenever I look at her, all I can remember is the skinny, burnt soldier in the bed next to mine, her hair falling out in clumps and her croaky voice ordering around the poor volunteer nurses. I remember nights of crying in her arms, nights where she cried in mine until the sun's light evaporated the last of the stars from the smoky sky. I remember confiding in her about Tamara, about the sister I knew and the sister I lost.

"Shut up, dick," she chuckles, idly scratching at her burn scars. "We've been over that. You watched Tamara die in a battle on live television. You were so depressed that you hoped you'd die in the war. Blah blah."

She's the only one I allow to talk to me like this, in a straight forward, no nonsense way, in a way that is so blunt it's mean. I roll my eyes back at her. "Well, what do you want me to do about it? Suck it up?"

"Yeah," she begins to turn away, checking her watch. As she walks down the street, she calls back at me. "And while you're at it, take a shower. You stink!"

I grin and open my front door, my head clearer than it has been in days. Though Scoria rehashes things that should trigger my PTSD, the way she does it somehow allow me to process through things rather than go into an episode. She's a confusing and yet useful friend to have around.

"Leucas?" my mother's stern voice sounds from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"Yeah." I call back, lungs clicking as the breath escapes my body. I follow her voice, walking down the long hallway. Along the walls are framed medals, plaques, papers that express gratitude for astounding and extraordinary military service for the nation of Panem. My mother's mostly, though a few trinkets of my father's are thrown in, most notably a silver cross, signifying excellent medical service for the Capitol soldiers.

My mother sits at the kitchen table, nose buried in the newspaper. Headlines across the front announce the dawning of a beautiful new era of sacrifice and glory. _The Hunger Games- a Pageant of Majesty _it reads. She looks up, her only remaining hand dropping the paper and bringing it to her stump of a leg. She rubs it in a way that signifies pride, the muscles in her arm twitching.

"How was work?" She asks, eyebrows raised. "Are you ready for today?"

"Fine and yes," I say. "Scoria and I walked home from the doctor's together."

"And how are those lungs?" Her eyes fall on my chest, as if scrutinizing my insides.

"They're the same," I shrug. "Prolonged physical activity isn't recommended, it'll take time to heal."

"Hmph," she shrugs. "I'd talk to your father. I don't trust that doctor. I heard he worked for the rebels, but switched sides quietly as the tide turned."

A wave of fury pulses through my gut. The man who listened to me breathe just an hour ago could have healed the soldiers that killed my sister. "I'll stop going to see him then." I say quietly, clenching my fists so my hands don't shake.

"Good idea," she says, peering at me closely. "I'd go get ready if I were you. This reaping thing is mandatory. Even though you won't be picked, you need to go. We don't want to disobey the regulations, yes?"

"Of course, Mom." I kiss her cheek before standing. "I'll go get ready now."

I head up the stairs, fingers still twitching with the suppressed rage. I didn't used to hate people so vehemently, but I know there's a good reason for despising the rebels. Before I'm even aware of what's happening, I'm swept up in a tidal wave of memories.

-:-

"_They're televising it," I whisper to Cicero on the phone as I simultaneously click on the television. "I'm guessing for morality. To rile up the Loyalists and let them know how strong our Capitol truly is."_

"_I'd be careful," Cicero's voice carries a warning. "Isn't your sister supposed to be in combat?"_

"_Tamara won't get killed or even injured," I respond, indignant. "She was top of her class, she's leader of her squadron. She'll do great things."_

_The television screen is suddenly lit up a garish shade of red and a muted tone of gray. The battle has already begun, and blood is running through the streets of Five like a river. I watch, horrified and fascinated, unable to tear my eyes away. _

"_I have to go, Cicero," I click off the phone, focusing my whole attention on the battle scene before me. I spot Tamara before I see anything else, her small figure rushing through the gore, leading a small team of women towards enemy lines. Her dark skin is splattered with dust and the blood of others. While war flashes around her, I imagine her face as placid, calm, determined, mature for her young age of eighteen, though I'm serving at even a younger age: sixteen. _

_It happens fast, while I'm lost in a daydream about my military service. I glance away from the television to watch my squadron, asleep on their beds. Tomorrow we'll be sent into combat, though where and why and for how long I don't know. A sudden bang from the screen jolts me from my thoughts. _

_I watch as a bomb goes off near Tamara. I watch as she falls, dazed. I watch as a soldier, face covered with a black bandanna, stands over her. _

_And puts a bullet through her head. _

-:-

Tamara's room is still just as it was left. My dad insisted no one enter, touch her things, change the way anything is. After she died, my military service continued, but I could no longer find the strength to continue life without her. The rest of the district considers me a hero for what I did, but I knew it wasn't heroic at all. It was a suicide attempt, an attempt to save my fellow soldiers and die in the process. But all that happened is I developed two crappy lungs.

I reach the town square before I know it. It's crowded, and I head to the section full of eighteen year olds as quickly as I can. No sense in delaying this thing longer than necessary. The woman onstage is so short she can barely reach the microphone, even with the additional inches of heel on her feet. She beams out at the crowd once everyone has settled in. The majority of District Two is rather calm, which makes sense, as the majority of us are loyalists. With a kind of satisfaction, I notice a few disturbed and terrified faces in the crowd- the descendants of rebels. I suppose everyone has the same train of thought as I do.

Loyalists do not belong in the Games.

"Welcome to the reaping for the first annual Hunger Games!" the woman onstage chirps. "You all ought to be very excited for this day. I know I am!" She laughs, quickly rushing through the formalities. When she draws the female tribute I scarcely pay attention. Likely a rebel, likely going to die.

Good riddance.

"And the male tribute of District Two is…" she opens the second slip of paper. "Leucas Olabode!"

I am unable to breathe. Not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated shock. My body reacts, but my mind is frozen. As I take my place on the stage, it's all I can do to keep from yelling. My parents aided in the suppression of the rebellion. My sister was killed fighting for the Capitol. I fought for the Capitol. How is any of this fair? How is any of this just?

One thing is for certain: I am going to the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Hello everyone! Second tribute up! I still need some more submissions, so keep them coming. Here are some questions for you: **

**1) Favorite thing about Leucas?**

**2) Least favorite thing about Leucas?**

**3) Favorite tribute thus far?**

**4) Anything I can do to improve!**

**Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it. **

**xo Ethereal**


	5. District One: Alouette Delmonte

**AN: this chapter contains violence and mentions of suicide. Please do not read if it may trigger you.**

* * *

**District One Female: Alouette Mazarine Delmonte**

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is wish I was still asleep, still locked within the safe, warm grasp of dreaming. The light that filters through my bedroom curtains only make my chest tighten with fear and anxiety about facing the day before me. But light is better than the darkness, because the darkness is when my demons feel free to surround me as though forming a metal box, _the _metal box. I swallow, closing my eyes halfway, trying to regain control of my mind. The room bends and blurs around me, soft pinks and blues melting together to create a relaxing and confusing collage. Things don't seem so real and difficult when their outlines are bended and refracted in this way.

There are prostitutes in this town. There are motherless children, starving bodies begging for food. Everywhere you turn, if you look hard enough, there are remnants of the war that concluded just a year ago now. And then there is me.

My path to the bathroom is difficult, the doors still not wide enough to encompass the wheelchair my father bought for me. Despite being the mayor of a wealthy district, we don't have the kind of money that allows us to completely redesign the house to make it safer for Minerva and me. Instead, once I'm up, everyone knows it. The wheelchair bangs against the walls gently, and I occasionally bump into door frames and various objects that are littered around the house.

"Ettie?" my mother's soft voice sounds from her bedroom as I pass. "Did you want to shower this morning?"

"Yes, mother," I reply, pausing at her cracked door. "Should I wait for you?"

"No, go on then," she calls. "I'll be along in a second."

I continue wheeling myself down the hall, entering the marble bathroom. The glass shower stands at one end, a special seat installed for me. We used to have a bathtub, but Father got rid of it a long time ago. He said it took up too much space and was old, but the rest of us knew he took it out because it reminded him too much Victoire, of the long, hot baths she used to take on Sunday nights. Her pampering time usually bled into the history lesson Mother was teaching, but no one truly minded. She was a hard person to get mad at.

I lean back against the chair as I wait, head touching the marble. If I try hard enough, I can imagine that I'm sinking into a world where I also am marble, a seamless part of the wall. Nothing around me exists, and nothing around me will hurt me. But I'm almost always jolted back to reality within seconds.

"Ready, darling?" Mother is in the bathroom, already fully and elegantly dressed, hair carefully swept up, nails polished and face impeccable. As I nod, she carefully wheels me away from the wall, to a place where I can easily see my reflection in the mirror. I wince. I look as though I haven't slept in weeks, which I suppose is, for the most part, true. Insomnia medication is no help.

She carefully pulls off my nightdress and then my underwear. It is now that I can truly get a good look at myself. The slashes and burns and cuts and two stumps I have for legs are often enough to send me into a tailspin, triggering screaming, memories of children in boxes and red hot knives and voiceless tormentors. Today however, I am strangely calm. I peer at the tattoo on my back. Crudely done by one of my captors, it depicts a fallen angel, one of the more violent rebel symbols, and it covers my shoulders to my waist.

My mother helps me into the seat in the shower, turning on the water. It is cool, rather than hot, and she always keeps the glass door open. She rubs honey lavender shampoo into my hair, her hands delicate and soothing. I close my eyes, but open them as she steps away briefly, searching for the conditioner among the countless bottles of hair product and potions.

The shower door slowly creeps shut.

And suddenly I. Can't. Breathe.

The world around me disappears. A metal box is all I see, not a glass shower door, and my feet are contorted and chained to my neck. I can feel my own acidic breath bouncing off the narrow iron walls that trap me but do nothing to muffle the screeches of pain and torment that echo through these halls.

The cold water suddenly becomes scalding, and it is not water but knives red with heat, slicing through the flesh of my legs and instantly cauterizing the wound. My mother's humming becomes cello music, the melody bouncing around in my head until it becomes the one I heard as They dragged me away from the concert hall, a simple trip to the bathroom turning into the ruination of my life.

"Alouette! Ettie!"

On some level, I can hear my mother's panicked voice, but her touch to me feels lethal, gloved, as though she's wearing a black hoodie and plans to add both physical and emotional scars. I can't respond to her, but I cry out for my sister as though we're both still locked away in that place, as though she's still alive.

"Victorie!" My own voice is cracked, like chapped lips that begin to bleed. I can barely hear it over the roar inside my mind. The roar grows louder, like a tidal wave nearing the shore, and I'm suddenly everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

-:-

"It happened again," I am lying on Bellamy's bed, and he is sitting on the floor, knees to chest. He regards me silently as I speak for the first time, breaking more than an hour of utterly comfortable silence. "The shower door closed. I called for her."

He nods slowly. Though he says nothing, I know he understands. He and the other handful of survivors are the only ones that truly understand the PTSD and the flashback and the losses and the scars.

All of us had influential, rich, Capitol loving parents. Though most captives were taken from the Capitol itself, Bellamy and I were the exceptions, born and raised in District One, the diamond district, luxury locale. The rebels tortured us and videotaped it, sending footage, sometimes live footage, to our parents and government officials, with demands for money and concessions from the Capitol. When I can, I like to think that the rebels who did that to us were a particularly violent sect of revolutionaries, driven by hunger and sadness and a need for more, rather than simple cruelty. It's nearly impossible to think like this everyday, however.

"Did you tell the others?" Bellamy asks finally. Out of the 40 children who were taken, only eight of us remain, each one with their own scars and stories. Carisa has no tongue, Pallas was whipped within an inch of her life, Ryker is missing all four limbs, Nathaniel had teeth pulled, Hermann still doesn't speak. My own sister's wild intelligence has all but disappeared. Bellamy lost his right arm to save my eyes.

"No," I say quietly, gazing at him. "I don't think I'm going to."

Out of all of the survivors, Bellamy and I understand each other best, better than even Minerva and I, despite her being my sister. He knows how to avoid my triggers, and I know how to manage his. His room is the only place I can sleep, and I often come here and just pass out, waking hours later with a blanket over me and Bellamy reading a book in the corner. He doesn't own anything black, because he knows it reminds me of Them. He is my legs when I need them, and I am his other arm.

"That makes sense."

"Yeah."

We fall silent again. Normally I would be asleep already, but today is not a normal day. Neither of us acknowledge it, however.

"What time do you have to leave?" He asks.

"Before eleven fifteen." I don't say why, and he doesn't inquire. We both know the reason we have to be ready and in the town square at twelve. I try not to think about it too much. It sounds like another form of torture.

I half close my eyes, allowing the room to bend around me, pretending once again that maybe, just maybe, I can sink into his wallpaper and become snow white and pale yellow, disappearing from the world around me and the worlds inside of me.

Before I know it, my eyes are drooping all the way closed, and I am left in soothing darkness, not the horrible sharp black that terrifies me so much.

"I'll wake you up then," Bellamy's voice is soft, and it's the last thing I hear before sinking into a dreamless sleep.

-:-

There are many things I regret in life. But perhaps my biggest regret is the inability to have saved my twin, to protect her, like a sister should. I touch my neck, staring into my vanity mirror and then down at the stumps I have for legs. They are smooth to the touch but look strangely textured and uneven, as though hacked off in a fit of rage, which, in a way, I suppose they were.

My reflection is hard for me to stare at, because it reminds me so strongly of Victoire. Fair skin, small, refined features, dark hair. After not sleeping for several nights, I look like her legless ghost.

-:-

"_The video is live today, girls," the gruff voice of the captor dragging me and Victoire blindfolded down a dark hallway invades my ears, worming its way into my mind. Fear is like a parasite gnawing a hole in my heart. I can barely breathe, but try to stop trembling so hard, focusing my scattered and starved mind on staying strong for my sister, for the parents and government officials that are about to see us tortured. _

_I stumble and fall as the man holding us shoves us down onto the concrete floor, ripping off the blindfolds. My eyes squint, taking a moment to adjust to the bright lights, to the cameras and video recorders that surround Victoire and I on all side. We clasp hands, helping each other to our feet. _

"_What are you doing to us?" I intend to sound fierce, but my voice comes out small and weak and broken. Victoire nudges my arm, and we look up, staring at the ceiling, where two twin identical nooses are hanging. My heart drops in my chest. _

"_We're live in three… two… one…" the cameraman points a finger at us as the red light starts blinking. Two masked men drag two step ladders over to the nooses, forcing my twin and I to climb them. _

"_Please, please," Victoire is sobbing. She stares at the men, rather than the camera. _

"_That's good," a rebel says. "Keep that up." He turns to the camera as our necks are placed in the nooses. I close my dry eyes, my breathing shallow. I almost did it last night; killed myself, I mean, like Elena did just a week before. But I didn't, wanting to stay strong for my parents, for my sisters. _

Maybe, _I think, eyes closed. _I'd be better off dead right now.

_The rough rope cuts into my throat, irritating my dirty skin and slowly beginning to cut off my air flow. I have to stand on my tip toes to continue to breathe, and can't even look over at Victoire or at the camera. Below us, a rebel begins to speak. _

"_These two girls," he begins, "Twin daughters of Mayor Delmonte of District One, are about to die. They have suffered extreme torture, but have survived, and are now nearly their fourteenth birthdays."_

_Two years. It's been nearly two years. _

"_In order to save the lives of these young children, we, the patriots fighting for freedom from a tyrannical government, wish for an agreement to be drawn up in which the Capitol soldiers retreat from District Eight and allow us to gain their lost ground. You have twenty seconds to concede."_

_That's when the shouting begins. Fierce sobs and shouts from a tinny computer audio. I don't know what's happening. All I know is that it's getting harder and harder to breathe. My head pounds from a lack of oxygen, and my tied hands scrabble at nothing. When I can imagine my face turning a purple and blue patchwork, I'm suddenly alleviated from my pain. The rope is cut and I tumble onto the floor. _

_I cough. "Victoire," I mumble, turning my sore neck to find at my sister's body, eyes open, mouth agape, face blue. _

"_No," I mean to scream it, but my voice is too far gone, lacking oxygen, lungs crying still for air. "No!"_

_I hug her lifeless body tightly for a second before I'm ripped away from my sister, my twin and other half forever. _

_Of all the tortures I've endured, this is by far the worst. This is the one that breaks me. _

-:-

My father drives me and Minerva to the town square, taking the back roads to ensure we avoid the masses of people commuting to where the reaping will be held. I hold my sister's hand as we drive, though she doesn't hold mine, her mind gone as she stares out the car window.

"There will be cameras," my father says quietly. "Will you two be okay?"

"I'll manage," I respond, though my insides clench at the thought.

There is no response from my sister.

"Minerva?" my father repeats, voice strangely gentle. Before all this happened, Minerva used to watch me practice my ballet steps, applauding constantly, even when I did something completely wrong. Now, she scarcely communicates with the outside world, trapped in her own head most of the time. Though two years older, we are both eligible for the reaping, her 17, and I 15.

"You know, video cameras actually use a light sensitive microchip called charge-coupled device that converts what the lense sees into numerical format. Each frame is… is…" Minerva's sudden outburst of knowledge ends, and she returns to staring out the window.

My father, who is normally so distant and unemotional, has to turn away, tears forming in his eyes. I reach out a hand before pulling it back.

"We'll be okay, Father," I whisper, and I know he knows I don't just mean in front of the cameras.

-:-

The Capitolite standing on the makeshift stage bares her teeth down at us before reciting the costs of the war. She is tall, in five inch heels, and from my seat in my wheelchair, is utterly intimidating. Fear clenches in my gut as I spot cameras, and it takes a good deal of counting and deep breaths before I can get my emotions under control.

Nothing, however, compares to the next moments.

"Alouette Delmonte!"

For the second time today, I can't breathe. I'm clawing at my throat, screaming silently and trying to fight the voices that shout in my mind when I feel hands on mine. Bellamy.

"Ettie," his voice fights through his own panic, calm and rational to my ears. "Ettie, you're safe. You're okay."

It's a lie, and he knows it, but the soothingness of his tone allows me mind to focus for a few moments. I breathe. I breathe again.

"Bellamy," my voice breaks, and his hands leave mine as peacekeepers gently escort him away.

"I know," he calls, his own voice cracking and shattering into a million pieces. "I know."

I am going to be tortured once more.

* * *

**Hello! LOOOONG chapter here. Please read and review! I love you all!**

**Some questions lit yuh bet yuh**

**1) Favorite and least favorite things about Alouette?**

**2) Favorite tribute thus far?**

**3) Anything I can do to improve?**

**Y'all sum lit readers thanks!**

**xo Ethereal**


	6. District Three: Siro Amherst

**District Three Male: Siro Amherst**

Talos was born blue. He didn't breathe for three minutes after he was born, I'm told, his tiny body shaking like a leaf as the midwife simultaneously tried to comfort my mother and beat the breath back into his body, slender fingers rapidly tapping on his weak heart. He grew up like that, skin always a strange color. First blue, then a jaundiced yellow, then a pallid white that slowly settled into his face and body like a powder. He's slowly begun to grow out of his sickliness, but it has taken its price. I always feel like the oldest brother, though Talos is quick to point out that I act years younger than him, with my surly temperament and bitter attitude. As usual, he's right, though I would never admit that to him.

Talos and I stand side by side, quickly and efficiently sorting through the electronic wires that coming down the conveyor belt. We work in silence, the protective goggles we wear inhibiting our sight as well, blocking our peripheral vision as our hands flash over copper and other twisted metals.

Today is the first day the Telecommunication factory opened for business again, as it was looted, bombed, and altogether destroyed throughout the rebellion. Hordes of people showed up outside of the gates today, desperately needing the wages. Our gaunt bodies often look as though we could be blown away in the harsh District Three wind. Though Talos oftentimes stays home, preferring to work odd jobs while keeping everything organized and tending to our abode, even he couldn't resist the allure of a factory job, at least for a few days.

"FIVE MINUTES UNTIL BREAK!" A harsh voice sounds over smooth hum of the machinery. Our boss, a short, portly man, was a well-known loyalist during the war, despite being an ordinary citizen. On the small, old television we have, Talos and I oftentimes watch propaganda from the Capitol about the unfailing loyalty of these mere District dwellers, and the blessings that have been bestowed upon them as a result.

He didn't used to run the factory or have that girth. But the rebellion turned many things topsy-turvy.

Talos and I peel off our goggles as the bell sounds for the end of the shift. Normally I would stay, working a double, but today is not normal. It marks the year anniversary of a peace treaty, and the beginning of a new system of government. A crueler one, though the Capitol calls it merciful. Of course they'd invent a pageant where kids fight to the death for entertainment just as I'm about to turn eighteen and nearly age out.

"Sometimes," I grumble lowly to Talos as we exit the factory, squished on all sides by a massive crowd of people. "I swear the world is out to get me."  
Talos grins slightly, though there's nervousness behind that smile, as though he doesn't want people to overhear us. "You're so cynical."

"Just stating facts." I mutter, but let the subject drop.

Though the walk home is long, as our house is on the very outskirts, but the streets of District Three are mercifully flat. The wind whips at our backs, tousling our air and nipping at us through our threadbare clothes. My hand slowly begins to stiffen, the scar, the result of a factory accident, turning a light shade of blue. I flex and stretch my fingers, uncomfortable.

"Did you ask Mrs. Ackers about that laundry job?" I break the silence between us.

"Yes, Siro," Talos imperceptibly rolls his eyes. "You already asked me that."

"I just wanted to make sure."

"I'm a big boy, Siro. Nineteen. I can sort out my work."

"I know. Just sometimes you forget," I shrug.

"When have I ever forgotten?" he says, voice tense. "I get that you've been working longer than I have, but I've been keeping our shit together since Mom left. I can handle a little job."

"Okay, okay," I relent, backing off. Talos is the only person I would allow to win a petty argument like this. "Sorry."

We walk home together, the wind turning my brother's cheeks bright red, as though he'd been smeared with blood.

-:-

Our house is small and cluttered, but to me it feels empty, and that emptiness is a jab in the stomach. My mother used to fill up the space with laughter and light and kindness, but now she's dead, and Talos and I have thin frames and thin smiles that can only do so much in this dark little shack. Some days, I'll try a bit, cracking a few jokes when I know my brother is the only person around to hear them. Today, however, I don't feel like trying.

I stomp to my room the minute the door closes behind us, kicking aside a pair of my brother's shoes as I shut the door behind me. I'm constantly discovering his stuff in my room, as we only recently moved all his things to my mother's old bedroom. He wanted to give me some more space, something I'm not so sure I'm grateful for.

"Talos!" I yell. "Your shit's in my room again!"

"I'll get it later!" His voice is muffled through my closed door.

I stare at the shoes, a dark brown with holes and scuff marks, tossed next to my closet. I carefully fix them, setting them down gently by the door, where he can grab them easily. I then turn to my attention to the two twin beds with the thin, colorless mattresses. One is stripped of its sheets, the other messily made up.

I start at a knock on the window.

"Hey," Kline is standing there, his messy blonde hair streaked with dirt. He gives me a hesitant smile. I grudgingly open the window.

"What?" I nearly snap, irritated that he's here.

"Um, where's Talos?"

"I don't know, why don't you knock on the door like a normal person?" I roll my eyes, barely tolerating him.

"Just thought he might be in here," he says, defensive.

"Well, obviously you two aren't so close," I say smugly. "Because he moved into my mom's old room a while ago."

He moves away from the window, and I snap it shut, watching as he walks over to the door. I used to like Kline. Look up to him even, like another older brother who might actually take care of me. But he turned out to be a coward, too scared to break a simple curfew law to help me with Talos, who was dangerously ill. I stopped looking up to him that night, resented him for leaving me alone to deal with my brother's vomit and coughing and high fever. He abandoned Talos like my mother abandoned us.

I change quickly, well aware that the ceremony everyone is required to attend begins in an hour or so. If Mom were here, she would force me to shower, hand me clothes that she had just washed and dried and ironed. But she's not here; instead, she's in an unmarked grave somewhere in an outer district. Maybe even district thirteen. All I know is that she isn't here, choosing instead to run off and chase her dreams for a better life.

Look where dreaming has got us.

-:-

"_Where's Mom?" I ask, as Talos steps through the door. I've been standing, waiting here, for nearly an hour. Though our house is extremely far away from the city, I can see the fires and the hovercrafts from our living room window. Sometimes, I imagine, I can feel the house shaking. _

"_What, you mean she isn't here?" His voice tightens, anxious. _

"_No!" my own voice rises. "I thought she'd be with you!"_

_Our mother has been more and more distant lately, returning home at odd hours, buying expensive loaves of bread, only to refuse to give us any. _

"_Special bread," she'd say, voice distracted. "It isn't for you." _

_And now, it appears, she's completely missing, during the first real conflict in District Three._

_Talos begins pacing back and forth, eyes flashing with worry. I knead my hands together, twisting my fingers to the point of pain as I sit, shaking my leg. "She was here earlier today," I say. "Because I saw a new loaf of bread on the counter."_

"_Where?" _

_I point to the kitchen, and Talos disappears. When he comes back, he is brushing bread crumbs off a sheet of yellowed paper. I jump to my feet. _

"_Where the hell did you get that?" I yell, running over to my brother. I stop abruptly as I realize his eyes are swimming with tears. "What's wrong?" _

"_Read it," he shoves the letter at me, shaking his head. "It was hidden in that bread."_

_The ink stretches across the page, in spindly handwriting I recognize as my mother's. _

Dear Talos and Siro, _it reads. _I've known this day would come for a long time now. I hope someday you two can forgive me for the damage I'm about to inflict. Know that I love you both with all of my heart, and that I hope someday I can make it up to you.

I am a key part in District Three's rebellion, and I can no longer sit back and do covert operations while children, mothers, fathers, and everyone else in this horrible nation suffer at the hands of the Capitol. I have to go. To fight, to lead, and to achieve the dream I-

_I stop reading here, throwing the note to the floor. Of course she left us. Bitterness coats my tongue like grape medicine, sticky, disgusting, but strangely good. I stomp on the paper, trying to keep the tears away with anger and disgust. My heel grinds the note into the floor, erasing my mother's words and final apologies. _

"_She left us," Talos's says. _

"_She left us." I repeat. If Talos's voice is deep and reverberating, holding space for his sadness and confusion, mine is tight and flat, with no space for anything but anger and bitterness. _

_Outside, the world quakes and shudders with the force of a hundred bombs and a million screams from dying citizens. _

_For a moment, I wish my mother was among them. _

-:-

We walk to the reaping quietly, as do most other citizens. I give Kline a sarcastic wave as he falls into step beside us, but don't break the silence. Neither does he, and neither does Talos, who normally reprimands me from being so cold to Kline. Today, he simply reprimands me with a stern look that I promptly ignore.

As we near the town square, I gape. It has been completely transformed, a stage erected, bright lights shining down on colorful banners emblazoned with propaganda slogans and images of the Capitol seal. Capitolites man cameras and stand onstage, their bright clothes and hair and, sometimes, skin, standing out against the drab backdrop of the city.

We quickly file into the crowd, Talos bidding me a short farewell. As he goes to stand with the adults, patting my back and messing up my hair.

"I'll see you soon, okay?" He says, giving me a gentle smile. It's meant to be encouraging, I think. I simply shrug.

"Okay," my voice is listless. That same bitterness begins to coat my tongue and throat like medicine.

He and Kline disappear, and I am alone in the crowd, finding the other seventeen year olds. I nod at a few of my classmates, but don't join in their nervous whispers. I simply stare straight ahead, ignoring the things that go on around me.

"WELCOME!" A shrill voice snaps me out of my daydream. "Welcome, to the drawing for the first Hunger Games, a pageant of glory and triumph! Who will be our first two lucky winners?"

I roll my eyes. The bitterness has spread to my chest and stomach and every part of me. The only thing that would make it worse would be-

"Siro Amherst!"  
Of course. I nearly laugh, an angry, sarcastic sound that chokes and dies in my throat. Inwardly, I sneer. Of course it would be me. Of course life would decide to fuck everything up even more and send me to my death. I clench my fists, knuckles white. Somehow, I make my way up to the stage, glaring as I go.

I'm doing to my brother what I was always worried others would do to me. What my mother did to us.

I might die.

I am leaving.

**Hello everyone! Thanks for reading another fuckin lit chapter! **

**If you would be so kind and answer some questions:**

**1) favorite and least favorite thing about Siro!**

**2) favorite tribute thus far?**

**3) what can I do better? **

**love you all ! thanks!**

**xo ethereal **


	7. District Four: Delma Velasquez

**District Four Female: Delma Velasquez**

There is a long, spindly crack in our dining room table, its branches and careful influence spreading across the old wood in a threatening fashion. My mother usually tries to cover it with a rough blue and beige cloth, woven from fabric and old fishing nets, but its tendrils creep from beneath it to matter how carefully she arranges it. It reminds me that no one is ever truly safe in my home, and likely, no one ever will be while I am still alive.

I used to spend hours sitting at that table, pouring pastel colored sand into jars, layer upon layer creating a soothing sunset, or mimicking the rise and fall of the blue sea. But that seems like it was a lifetime ago, when my fingers were still pudgy with baby fat and grubby with the crap little kids manage to get on their hands. That was before the crack formed. There's no time for such pleasantries anymore. Instead, the colors that my hands touch tend to be silver and red.

I slit the knife along the iridescent scales of the fish I hold in my grasp, opening it and pulling out his innards. Blood splatters onto the dock below me, but I don't flinch. I hardly flinch anymore, though I used to be fairly squeamish when I first found this job. Still, as I stretch my shoulders, I yearn for the days that I used to complain about- boat rides through the bay with my father and brother, hauling tons of fish to the market, the dinner parties my father used to host for his employees.

"That's not what she told me."

A voice sound a few feet in front of me, and I look up to see two of my former classmates repairing sails on a boat nearby as they chatter away.

"Well, then what version did you hear?"

Both are blonde and pixie-like, limbs appearing almost stretched due to malnourishment. I watch them as I continue to idly scrape scales off the fish, reminded of a better life. The smell of blood and guts enters my nostrils, creating a pungent odor as it mixes with the saltiness of the sea.

"Allis said that she and Palomar didn't do shit last night. That he drank too much and started crying to her about his family. Or I guess, his lack of one."

"So he made it up to cover that up?"

"Trying to protect his precious masculinity, probably."

"Poor guy."

"Yeah."

I glance over at them again, and this time, one of the girls spots me, meeting my gaze before quickly looking away. I set my tools down as I crouch towards the waves lapping against the dock. I rinse my hands quickly, face reddening as the sun and the whispers bore into my already rough skin. I can imagine what they're saying.

_So sad. Family destroyed. She's dangerous, at least that's what my parents say. _

I sigh but don't react, instead splashing water onto my hot cheeks, the saltwater burning the sunburn that resides there. I stand and walk to my boss, head held high. I refuse break my gaze with the girls as I pass them, giving them a slight smile rather than ignoring them. It could be sarcastic, genuine. I don't even know if I'm really sure what I intend to convey with it.

"You done then, girl?" My boss barks, not bothering to look up from his list of numbers. This is how people stay safe from my family and the trouble we might bright. Don't look, don't talk, don't refer to us by name.

"Yeah," I say easily. "And you said you'd give me the wages in cash today."

"Don't have cash on me." He mutters.

"The hell you don't," I shoot back. "I'm serious. I need that money in cash. Now."

"I could fire you," he sneers, but hands me the money anyways.

I pocket it. "Thanks!" I give him another easy grin before leaving the dock, rough wood transitioning quickly to cobblestone as I begin the walk back home. I don't really need the money in cash, but it's nice to have something to present to my parents every so often, especially on a day like this, where fear and anger hang heavy in the air. Besides being the first official selection of tributes, today also marks the day a peace accord was drawn up, the day my brother's idealistic notions officially turned to dust.

Anything that reminds my parents of my brother draws out anger. I'm sure, in some capacity, they are scared for him, ashamed for not caring for him better, guilty for raising him "wrong". But all they show is their fury for the danger he put his family in after going off to fight for the rebellion.

I shake the change in my pocket and watch as the sun arcs in the sky behind the clouds. Normally sunrises look like a promise of renewal.

Today it looks threatening.

-:-

I can only remember one time I hated the sea. It has so many facets, so many personalities, that I can almost imagine it as a disordered person, benevolent and calm one moment and dark and angry the next. Today, the ocean is so still, you might imagine it as a giant lung of the Earth, holding a particularly deep breath. The water, an opaque gray-blue, doesn't sparkle, as the sun has been snatched up and swallowed by a large cloud. It still shines in the cumulonimbus' belly, however, and the District remains in a moody state of in between- the sky is neither dark nor light.

The only time I didn't love the sea was the morning after my brother had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving only a note that read: _I have to fight for our freedom. I love you all. Marcos_. We were awoken by a bang, a wooden crash that jolted me from sleep. The smell of something acidic was the first thing I noticed, followed by the barking of orders and yelling that echoed from downstairs.

-:-

"_Search the entire home!" I jump out of bed the precise moment the gruff voice nears my room. "Anything incriminating, bring to me!"_

_I back against the tall windows that double as doors to a tiny balcony that juts out over the cliff our house is built on. A short way down, the sea churns, the stilts of our home stretching into nearly gray waters. I contemplate jumping, imagining how long my muscular limbs could fight against the anger of the tide as I tried to escape the men invading our home. _

"_Hey!" _

_I'm broken from my dreams of escape by the voice of a Capitol soldier, recently called peacekeepers by the president. Because, after all, that's what they were there for. To keep the peace. _

"_To keep us all slaves, he means," my brother whispered to me as we washed dishes one night, the television on in the room next to the kitchen. I didn't respond at the time, but now, as the man roughly grabs me and shoves me from my bedroom to the downstairs dining room, his words ring true in my ears. _

"_Delma," my mother pulls me to her, hugging me tightly. _

"_What's going on?" I ask, still smushed against her chest. _

"_Your brother ran away," my father hisses, his face lined with something that doesn't exactly resemble anger. It looks numb, as though he can't quite grasp the situation. "To join the rebels. The soldiers think we have something to do with it." _

_I don't respond. I knew Marcos' dreams, his aspirations. He'd drag me along to combat lessons after work a few days a week, telling my dad that he was only interested in watching the men practice, not actually learning the skills. When the fighting broke out, I had a strange feeling he'd be gone before long. And now it's happened. _

_We watch in silence as the peacekeepers destroy our home, tearing down furniture, carelessly opening the doors that lead to the kitchen's small balcony that overlooks the sea. _

"_What do you need with this?" a man sneers, holding up the family portrait my father's friend did of us in charcoal. When we don't respond, he tosses it carelessly over the edge. I can feel my parents stiffen beside me. _

"_And this?" he throws my mother's fine china over the railing. He seems annoyed by our lack of a reaction._

"_Frankly," he continues. "I'm inclined to believe that you all are rebels, hoarding such fine goods rather than donating all you can to the Capitol's army."_

"_Please," my mother finally speaks up. "I have a government job. We're loyalists."_

_The dining room table is flipped, and a horrible cracking noise sounds through the room. I can't help but flinch, tears forming in my eyes as my parents continue to plead with the peacekeepers. _

_After they leave, I stand still on the balcony, refusing to face the wreckage behind me, desperately trying to ignore the massive hole that feels as though it's stretching through my heart. _

_I trace the rotting wood with a broken nail, gently scraping more paint from it's weathered surface. Our house is much of the same- old and blue, practically sagging with old age. The wind whips through it mercilessly every night, and when it rains, there are always leaks in the roof. And now, it is almost destroyed, our furniture overturned, our family broken apart. _

_I watch as the sea swallows up the family portrait. _

_I didn't love the sea that day. _

-:-

The peacekeepers continued to harass us for months that slowly became years. When the war finally ended and Marcos didn't return, they assumed he was dead, and ceased to bother us. It was a miracle that we weren't arrested, and I know it has more to do with my mother's previous job in the government of District Four than it has to do with innocence.

Some days, I resent Marcos for what he did to us. My father's business crumbled, as no one wanted to work for or buy from the 'rebel' who had so many Capitol soldiers breathing down his neck every moment of the day. It was too dangerous for them, and so he quickly lost business, then money, then a job altogether. My mother lost her government position. When the peacekeepers finally left us alone, he and my mother were finally able to find work in a cannery. My friends left me alone.

Some days, however, I understand him. His passion, his drive for something greater. These, however, are thoughts I don't voice in a house were Marcos' name is like a curse, in a house where he is dead, despite there being no actual confirmation. I push the front door open, trying to forget my brother.

"Home," I call, my voice echoing through the shabby halls.

"We're in the kitchen," my father responds. His own voice is flat, devoid of any emotion besides the crushing weight of numbness.

The floor creaks below me as I make my way to them, carefully handing my father the coins. "I made this today," I grin. "It should help, with the bills and all that."

Something flickers in my father's eyes. "Thanks, honey," he offers me a smile in return. Next to him, my mother stares at the coins rather than at me, counting them quickly. She nods her assent to my father's remark, though her face is hard.

"Go change, then," she instructs. "You have to look nice for this selection thing."

"Okay," I shrug, indifferent to her stern tone. She didn't use to be so bitter, her nature caring to a fault. My father used to be dynamic and caring as well, but now they are both simply shells.

I don't know exactly what I am.

-:-

District Four was a place of war, just like every other district. It still bears the signs of death and destruction, oil spilled in the harbor, piles of rubbish in the alleyways, starving children everywhere. I'm sure there are dozens of marks we can't see, the ocean swallowing ship carcasses and trapped soldiers like calcium pills.

I walk to the reaping with Skipper, my normally relaxed and easy strides somewhat rushed. We are late, and two children are about to die.

"I didn't see you this morning," I say. It's more of a question than a statement, however, and he hesitates before answering.

"I thought I'd take the day off," he finally replies. "You know, with all the commotion going on."

"Well," I say, watching as the crowd thickens the nearer we get to the town square. "At least you don't have to worry. You're twenty."

"And you're seventeen," He says, voice dry. "Only this year and next, apparently."

I shrug in response. We met gutting fish, and we bonded over our mutual hatred of our bosses. I clung to him, because Skipper was one of the only people to talk to me after my family was harassed for so many months. He had little to lose after the war, and he accepted me. Today, however, everything feels off, even our normally easy friendship.

We separate with a quick hug as we enter the square, filing into our designated places. The girls around me ignore me, choosing instead to commiserate with each other, ignoring the chattering of the Capitolite onstage and the glare of the lights and cameras.

"Welcome everyone!" she chirps. "So happy to have you here on this historic day!"

My mind lazily drifts in and out of focus. I can't help but think it'll be me drawn today, the peacekeeper's vendetta against my family carried out somehow. Their daughter fighting for her life on television after their son abandoned them would break my parents. I curl my toes in my sandals, waiting and waiting to hear a name that isn't mine.

I might even pray.

It doesn't work.

"Delma Velasquez!" the woman shrieks with glee, her hair dangerously listing to the left. She straightens it and bares her scary smile.

I am shaking like a leaf as I make my way to the stage, clenching my fists to keep my hands from trembling. I thought I was ready for this; I thought I knew what might be coming. The last thought I have before I face the cameras is realizing just how wrong I was.

It looks like I am fated to join my brother.

* * *

**Hello! Thanks for reading another lit update from myself. I'm glad you are on this syot, and appreciate everyone who has submitted! Updating has been great lately, so pray that I can keep it up lol. Here are some questions. **

**1) favorite and least favorite thing about this character?**

**2) favorite tribute thus far?**

**3) anything I can do to improve?**

**love y'all lit 420!**

**xo ethereal**


	8. District Two: Atlanta Manadnock

**District Two Female: Atlanta Manadnock **

I dream of a small house in the woods where sunlight filters in through smudged windows. The solid mountains provide protection without blocking out the light, and the path to the front door is well worn. A little girl plays in the woods near the home, contriving stories and games alone or with friends, her dark brown hair wild, her almond eyes alight with something greater than happiness. I dream only when I sleep, however, and the dreams are not always so beautiful and nostalgic.

"Atlanta!" A yell jolts me from my sleep, and I sit up quickly, instinctively grabbing the makeshift knife by my pillow. I throw off the threadbare blanket, the cold air kissing my skin as I stand in the middle of the alleyway, looking for the source of the cry.

The five of us are nestled between four dumpsters, two against one wall, three against another. I relax as I realize it's only Winnie who's calling for me, eyes wide after a nightmare.

"Shit Win," I go to her, kicking the knife away. "Don't scare me like that."

We sit next to each other, careful not to disturb Alicia, who is still fast asleep. I take her hands in mine, rubbing them as I try to warm them up. She's nearly blue with cold, though it feels like it's only fifty degrees or so.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, looking up at me with doe eyes that still remind me a little too much of Alex's. "Had a nightmare."

"I gathered," I say dryly, though its with a slight grin. "Wanna tell me about it?"

"No," she says, instinctively.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Fine," she relents, twitching slightly. Her cheeks are hollow, and her hair is limp and nearly matted with dirt. We all smell of refuse, but there is something acidic about Winnie's stench, like burning plastic. I glance over at Alicia as Winnie begins to speak.

"There was fire," she shudders. "That's what I remember most. A whole lot of-"

"Can y'all shut up?" Mandy's harsh voice pipes up from across the alleyway. "Some of us are trying to sleep, and y'all are kinda ruinin' it."

"She had a nightmare," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Oh, boo hoo," Mandy snorts, sitting up. "We all have fuckin' nightmares."

I'm on my feet now. "Shut your damn mouth. She's a child."

"You're a child too, bitch!"

"Fuck off!"

Suddenly there are skinny arms pulling me back, arms around Mandy as well. Jezebel and Alicia are wrestling us away from each other. Alicia dumps me against the wall, and I watch Jezebel tighten her grip on Mandy until she calms down.

"Well," Jezebel shakes her head at us. "That's one hell of a way to start the morning. You two- stay the hell away from each other today. Winnie, Mandy, you're with me. Alicia, Atlanta, you two are together."

I stand again, squeezing Winnie's hand. I don't look back at Mandy. We get into it pretty often, but not like today. I suppose today's different though- many people are on edge; we have a lot to lose. Alicia grabs my arm, hauling me off down the alley.

The District Two sun is hidden by a thick layer of mist, obscuring buildings not to far away. It casts everything in a blue-grey tone, the streets coated with a peculiar silvery glow. We use this to our advantage, Alicia and I slipping between the crowds, looking for those who might have a few extra coins tucked into their back pockets.

Most days it's more difficult, our rags and dirty hair marking us as little more than dumpster divers and street rats, which I suppose we are. Today, however, everyone is distracted. It didn't used to be like this. I used to walk around town with my older brother, my parents always a few steps behind us. But war has taken more than their lives from me. It's ruined my own.

Alicia grabs my hand, leading me into an alleyway. She opens her rough burlap bag, showing me the bounty within.

"We have…" she pulls out a handful of coins and bills. "Well, hell, I can't do math. You count the money."

I take it from her, carefully smoothing out the paper. My mother taught me addition and subtraction when I was younger, using smooth round stones from the river to show me that if you had two pebbles and took away one, only one remained.

"Fifteen." I announce.

"Hey, pretty damn good," Alicia grins. Alicia is all cinnamon and cardamom, summer and evaporating water. She has no filter, and reminds me of blinding sun. I, on the other hand, am silver and dead leaves crunching under your feet, drizzle and patterned ice.

"You know what else I got?" her voice is tantalizing, holding back laughter. I look up, rolling my eyes, not bothering to answer as she holds out a dead rodent of some sort.

"Hey, I thought it was funny." She shrugs, used to my silent, cool manner.

"We should get back," is my only response.

"You and Mandy almost made me crack up this morning," she says, as we begin to walk back towards the alleyway that we've claimed as our own. The official home of the Lost Girls, or our little ragtag group of war orphans. I resist that title. My mother is alive somewhere, though I'm sure I want nothing to do with her.

"She's a crackhead," I shrug. "Probably was high."

"Oh, you'd like to think that," Alicia says. "She's cleaner than Jezebel."

"Then why does it always smell like someone's doing drugs?"

"We live in an alleyway, stupid," Alicia shoots back. "Someone's _always _doing drugs."

I stop arguing with her as we approach our home. When she realizes that no one else is back, she continues to chatter away.

"I wonder if her parents did drugs."

"Her parents were loyalists."

"Oh, like that makes a difference. Mine were rebels, and I turned out ok."

I suppress laughter, not bothering to point out all the times she's mouthed off to officials. "If you say so, Alicia."

"I do say so. Loyalist or rebel, doesn't matter." she pauses, looking inside her bag to grab a stale piece of bread she must have pulled out of a dumpster.

"Mine were loyalist," I offer.

"You never talk about your parents," she pries, giving me a curious look. "Wanna talk about it?"

I snort, clamming up almost immediately, my face retreating to its usual bored expression. "You just want gossip."

She doesn't deny it. We sit in silence for a moment, contemplating each other. I put my hand out for a piece of bread, and she rips a small chunk off and tosses it at me.

Jezebel, all coffee and bitter chocolate and autumn, returns with Many and Winnie in tow. After carefully counting our bounty, we relax, munching on recovered food from trash cans as the sun rises low behind the haze of clouds around us.

It isn't much, but it's a family.

-:-

I've known hunger so well in the past few years, you could say we sleep together. The first time I felt the hollow of nothing expanding in my stomach, my mother had left over a week ago, and my youngest brother and I had run out of food. I was reluctant to go into the city. The massive mountains and thick woods that surrounded our small home made the bombs and fights in the city seem so much farther away.

But we were starving, our mother wasn't back, and neither of us knew how to survive in the woods. The city was our only option.

Hunger is your organs twisting inside of you, daring you to walk another step, lift another object, speak another word before you shove something down your throat. Stamina is continuing to walk despite that hunger.

By the time we reached the city, our feet were blistered and bleeding, and sweat poured down our brows. The heat from raging fires nearby cast everything in a wavering orange, and chaos reigned. I hoped to see Wren or my dad in their Capitol uniforms, trying their best to restore peace and order. Instead, I only saw horrific things, pillage and rape and murder and blood, blood everywhere.

I saw my little brother die, an explosion blasting him to bits.

I try to shove these memories down as Winnie and I continue to sort through our loot. I look down at her.

"Winnie," I break the quiet silence between us. "You never told me about your nightmare."

She glances back up at me, eyes doelike and so much like my little brothers. I promised my mother I'd protect him and failed. "There was fire everywhere," she begins. "And my mother was screaming. I think she was burning."

I inhale slowly. "And then?"

"And then I was burning," she says quietly, polishing a coin on her dirty shirt. She looks back up at me. "And then I woke up."

I shrug. "I wouldn't let something like that happen to you."

She laughs. "Thanks, Atlanta," she shakes her head at me. "The war's over now, so you don't have to worry."

"Well, if you ever need anything," I say, hoping my voice doesn't sound to eager, to clingy. "I'm here."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

-:-

"_You won't die, right?" I look up at my older brother Wren, face hopeful. "You and dad have to come back for us."_

"_I'll try my best," he messes up my hair. "I'll fight really hard for you guys, okay?"_

"_Okay," I say quietly, falling into his arms. His crisp white uniform is starchy against my tearstained cheek. I can imagine that same material soaked with blood, a strange crimson against such a pure, blinding white. I shake my head. I can't afford to think like that. _

_I watch as my brother and my father leave our house for the last time, headed into the city, where they'll be sent to any of the other twelve districts to fight for the Capitol. I press my hands into my sides, glancing at my mother. Her face is strangely calm, though also tearstained, as though she's already accepted their loss. _

"_Bye, you three," my father smiles back at us, closing the door behind him. _

_And suddenly, our small home feels empty, too large, too spacious without them. _

-:-

After two years of waiting, my mother told Alexander and I that she was going to the city for a week, to try to find some information about their whereabouts. She hugged me tightly and told me to look after my brother with my life. I swore I would. When she never came back and I lost Alex to a bomb, I found a new family.

The five of us walk to the reaping together, Winnie and I hand in hand. Her palms are soft, like the rest of her. She is all violets and spun sugar and springtime. The rest of our group is a few steps away. Though the rest of the district has dressed up for the first anniversary of the hard won peace, we are dressed in our usual torn and dirtied garb.

Everyone gives us a wide berth.

The stage that has been erected holds the mayor, a few town officials, and a few Capitol citizens. Most are in suits and ties, but one woman onstage, barely over four feet, is extravagantly dressed, her heels so tall they add what seems like a foot to her stature. I turn to Alicia.

"How much money do you think she carries on her?"

"At least six thousand," she smirks, staring at the woman.

We file into our respective age sections. Mandy and I with the sixteen year olds, Alicia with the fifteen year olds, Jezebel with the eighteen year olds, and Winnie with the fourteen year olds. I haven't given much thought about the actual outcome of today. Everyday is such a struggle that it's hard to pay attention to one in particular.

I suppose that whoever is picked today will be condemned to certain death.

"Welcome," the lady begins, her voice shrill and strangely high pitched. "To the first ever official Remembrance day, where we remember the horrid rebellion by selecting two brave candidates to represent their district in the Hunger Games! Who shall be the first?"

She blabbers on for a few more minutes, and I tune her out, focusing instead on the sky. It's still gray, though the sun is visible, a faint white outline behind the haziness of it all. It nearly blinds me, and I'm forced to look away.

"Atlanta Manadnock!"

My eyes widen, shocked, and then my face quickly reverts to a normal, bored expression. Inside, however, my guts are twisting and I can barely breathe. I hear Winnie's scream, and try to let it float away, just like I am.

By the time I make it to the stage, I've found a silver lining.

At least it wasn't anyone else in my new family.

* * *

**Hello! Sorry for updating later than usual today. This was a hard chapter to write, so I sincerely hope it doesn't suck. Paperairline, you gave me a lit character and I hope I did her justice. Questions!**

**1) Fav and least fav thing about Atlanta?**

**2) Favorite tribute thus far?**

**3) Critique me! **

**y'all are lit, life is lit, and shit is lit. have a gr8 thursday!**

**xo Ethereal**


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